


Tongues on the Sockets of Electric Dreams

by Sometimesyoufly (faile02)



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faile02/pseuds/Sometimesyoufly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smoke drifts up, curling around the lights, a path from lips to ceiling. James leans back, joint hanging casually between his fingers, a smoke ring escaping his mouth. Clint's sprawled next to him, a leg tossed over the arm of the couch, his back pressed against James' side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tongues on the Sockets of Electric Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Because Shannon and Emily asked for it. Also, it's 420 and though I don't really smoke much myself, I figured I should do SOMETHING for the holiday.
> 
> Title from Fall Out Boy's Golden.

Smoke drifts up, curling around the lights, a path from lips to ceiling. James leans back, joint hanging casually between his fingers, a smoke ring escaping his mouth. Clint's sprawled next to him, a leg tossed over the arm of the couch, his back pressed against James' side. He has to reach for the joint, fingers gliding over skin, heat blossoming along his path, before he takes a long drag, watches the red embers flare up from a different kind of fire. 

It sits in his lungs, filling the space, a heady feeling sinking into his veins. It's a bad habit, really, not a thing either of the men typically indulge in, except for when a mission goes south and they're both too hung up to relax either way. It's the good stuff, something made under hydroponic lights in a lab somewhere. Stark gets it for them. They never ask what an eighth costs, just accept the bags as they come. (Clint guesses Stark pays over a hundred for it, the fool). James can roll a joint better than even Clint's nimble fingers, but Clint's the one with the lighter in his pocket, the one that leans forward to light it, hanging from James' lips. 

The room is quiet, and they sit in the space between sober and not, let the slow burn of the marijuana ease their tension, a different kind of high settling over them. James feels loose, his limbs spread out, an arm along the back of the couch. It's easy for that hand to slip down, rest along the skin of Clint's arm, fingers moving in slow circles, sensation electric. 

Paper burns slow, even as they pass it between them, long drags the only sounds in the air, smoke leaving their mouths, clinging to their skin, soaking into their clothing. It's finished too quickly, and James contemplates rolling another, eyes the tin on the table, the rolling papers neatly lined up next to it. It seems like too much work though, not with Clint so close, bare skin already touching. It would be easy to just tip his head back, stroke the skin on his neck, lean forward to press a kiss onto rough lips. 

Clint's adam's apple jumps under James' hand. He tastes like beer and smoke and pizza they had for lunch. James licks into his mouth, fingers tighten just enough to drag a whimper from between pressed lips. He grins, pulls back to meet Clint's eyes. There's an answering smirk, a challenge sparking up between them. James lets a hand drift down, smoothing over chest muscles, flicking a nipple through the thin shirt Clint's wearing. It's not hard to find the button on Clint's pants, have it undone and the zipper down in seconds. James stops, lets his hand just ghost over the erection present to him, waits for Clint's whine before slipping his fingers under boxers, gripping velvet skin in a firm grip. 

A groan rips from Clint's throat, breaking eye contact as he closes his own. He bucks up slightly, only stopping when James' other hand, the one still caressing his neck, squeezes slightly in warning. This isn’t Clint's show to run. He settles down, fingers clenching and unclenching in time to the casual strokes on his cock. When Clint's hips move, James just chuckles, leans down to bite on an ear. Sometimes he rewards Clint with a faster stroke, a thumb swiping over the slit, smirking at the sounds he can pull from Clint's mouth. James waits, waits until Clint's breathing is staggered, the gasps and moans non-stop, waits for the little cant of his hips. He kisses Clint, catches a bit of lip between his teeth, le's his hand collect pre cum from the tip of Clint's cock, smears it down the length, uses it to ease his movement, strokes harder, faster, gives Clint permission to come, smirking as hips thrust up, sticky heat spilling over his hands. James grins, pulls his hand free. He knows Clint's watching the path of the movement, sees his eyes widen as James licks the come off his fingers. Whimpers as James kisses him, pushing his own come into Clint's mouth, sharing it between the two men. 

James is painfully hard, even in their drug addled state. He reaches for the drawer in the side table, fumbles around for the lube and condom they stashed in there the last time they had sex on the couch. 

"Pants off, Barton," James orders, shifting so he can slide his own down, kicking them off to the side. It's harder than he expects, but still can't stop himself from laughing at Clint's inability to stand. He reaches, hands on hips to steady him, presses a kiss into Clint's hip bone, as he helps him step out of black pants, leans back as Clint pulls his shirt off, standing nude in front of him. "Jesus," James mutters, tugging slightly on Clint's hips, pulling him into his lap. He lets Clint kiss him, cup his face, stroke a cheekbone. It's a good distraction, gives James time to lube up fingers, slide one into him. 

Clint sucks in a breath of air, feels a little dizzy from the pot in the air and James against his skin. A second finger joins the first, and Clint grinds down a little, encourages the finger fucking, waits for the third. They've done this enough, in so many ways, Clint opens easily for James. They stop just long enough for James to roll a condom on, and this time it's James with the strangled breath, small groans escaping his lips as Clint settles himself around James' cock. It's tight and hot and familiar, lazy fucking, Clint finding James' mouth, slowly riding him.

James sits back, lets Clint do the work, a hand drifting down his back, cupping the firm flesh of an ass cheek. The pot clings to the air, leaving them both lazy and comfortable. James thinks he could stay that way forever, lazy sex, biting kisses, lounging on an old couch. 

"One day," he half growls into Clint's ear, "I'm going to fuck you without a condom. Gonna come inside you, mark you."

There's a tightness in his balls and James takes over, gripping Clint's hips thrusting faster, harder. Clint reaches back, fingers finding James' sack, rolling his balls in his hand. A strangled gasp leaves James' mouth, hips stutter in movement before he comes, nothing but the condom separating James from Clint. 

They stay in place for a long moment. Long enough for James to go flaccid, Clint shifting enough for James to slip out. He gets up to take care of the condom, legs feeling like jelly underneath him, the haze just barely lifting from his head. When he returns to the couch, Clint is sprawled out again, naked and comfortable. 

"Roll another one," he says, taking the water bottle James hands him. 

James answers with a smirk, pulling off his own shirt to match the level of nudity in the room and sits to roll the joint. When he's done he lays beside Clint on the couch, lets them interlock limbs and share body heat as Clint leans over and lights the joint hanging from James' lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I looked at [this graphic](http://capitalboy.tumblr.com/post/46904765711) (Link NSFW) a lot while writing.


End file.
